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OUR  FRIEND 
THE  DOG 

BY 

MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 
Author  of  "THE  LIFE  of  the  BEET'  etc. 


TRANSLATED  by 
ALEXANDER  TEKEIRA  DE  MATTOS 


■* 

** 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

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m\A) 


Sb\3 


COPYRIGHT,    J904,    BY 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  J 903,  BY 
JfTHE    CENTURY    Ca 


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OVR  FRIEND, 
THE  DOG 


I 


HAVE  lost,  within  these  last 
few  days,  a  little  bull-dog* 
He  had  just  completed  the 


**«,  imu  juai  cumpieiea  me 
sixth  month  of  his  brief  existence. 
He  had  no  history.  His  intelligent 
eyes  opened  to  look  out  upon  the 


world,   to    love    mankind,  then 


wona,  to  love  mankind,  then 
closed  again  on  the  cruel  secrets 
of  death.  •       *+d 

The  friend  who  presented  me 

r".  m   f'  \   - 

ifcd 


-<-, 


:  '.' 


with  him  had  given  him,  perhaps 
by  antiphrasis,  the  startling  name 
of  Pelleas*  Why  rechristen  him? 
For  how  can  a  poor  dog,  loving, 
devoted,  faithful,  disgrace  the 
name  of  a  man  or  an  imaginary 
hero? 

Pelleas  had  a  great  bulging, 
powerful  forehead,  like  that  of 
Socrates  or  Verlaine;  and,  under 
a  little  black  nose,  blunt  as  a  churl- 
ish assent,  a  pair  of  large  hanging 
chops,  which 
massive, 
three-cor- 


and  symmetrical  chop 
made  his  head  a  sort  of 
obstinate,  pensive  and  \ 


mm 


k 


i 


nered  menace.  He  was  beautiful 
after  the  manner  of  a  beautiful, 
natural  monster  that  has  complied 
strictly  with  the  laws  of  its  species. 
And  what  a  smile  of  attentive 
obligingness,  of  incorruptible  in- 
nocence, of  affectionate  submis- 
sion, of  boundless  gratitude  and 
total  self-abandonment  lit  up,  at 
the  least  caress,  that  adorable 
mask  of  ugliness!  Whence  ex- 
actly did  that  smile  emanate? 
From  the  ingenuous  and  melting 
eyes?  From  the  ears  pricked  up 
to  catch  the  words  of  man?  From 


sal 


\* 


the  forehead  that  unwrinkled  to 
appreciate  and  love,  or  from  the 
stump  of  a  tail  that  wriggled  at 
the  other  end  to  testify  to  the  inti- 
mate and  impassioned  joy  that 
filled  his  small  being,  happy  once 
more  to  encounter  the  hand  or  the 
glance  of  the  god  to  whom  he 
surrendered  himself? 

Pelleas  was  born  in  Paris,  and 
I  had  taken  him  to  the  country. 
His  bonny  fat  paws,  shapeless 
not  yet  stiffened,  carried 
slacfcly  through  the  unexplored 
pathways  of  his  new  existence 


I 


p 


'■Si 


his  huge  and  serious  head,  flat- 
nosed  and,  as  it  were,  rendered 
heavy  with  thought. 

For  this  thankless  and  rather 
sad  head,  like  that  of  an  over- 
worked child,  was  beginning 
the  overwhelming  work  that  op- 
presses every  brain  at  the  start 
of  life.  He  had,  in  less  than  five 
or  six  weeks,  to  get  into  his 
mind,  taking  shape  within  it,  an 
image  and  a  satisfactory  concep- 


tion of  the  universe.  Man,  aided 
by  all  the  knowledge  of  his  own 
elders    and    his   brothers,  takes 


%% 


« 


thirty  or  forty  years  to  outline 
that  conception,  but  the  humble 
dog  has  to  unravel  it  for  himself 
in  a  few  days:  and  yet,  in  the 
eyes  of  a  god,  who  should  know 
all  things,  would  it  not  have  the 
same  weight  and  the  same  value 
as  our  own? 

It  was  a  question,  then,  of 
studying  the  ground,  which  can 
be  scratched  and  dug  up  and 
which  sometimes  reveals  surpris- 
ing things;  of  casting  at  the  sky, 
which  is  uninteresting,  for  there 
is  nothing  there  to  eat,  one  glance 


•*Fi 


4 


i 


mte 


*4 


that  docs  away  with  it  for  good 
and  all ;  of  discovering  the  grass, 
the  admirable  and  green  grass, 
the  springy  and  cool  grass,  a  field 
for  races  and  sports,  a  friendly 
and  boundless  bed,  in  which  lies 
hidden  the  good  and  wholesome 
couch-grass.  It  was  a  question, 
also,  of  taking  promiscuously  a 
thousand  urgent  and  curious  ob- 
servations. It  was  necessary,  for 
instance,  with  no  other  guide 
than  pain,  to  learn  to  calculate 
the  height  of  objects  from  the 
of  which    you   can    jump 


fc 


Ji 


space;  to  convince  yourself  that 
it  is  vain  to  pursue  birds  who  fly 
away  and  that  you  are  unable  to 
clamber  up  trees  after  the  cats 
who  defy  you  there;  to  distin- 
guish between  the  sunny  spots 
where  it  is  delicious  to  sleep  and 
the  patches  of  shade  in  which 
you  shiver ;  to  remark  with  stupe- 
faction that  the  rain  does  not  fall 
inside  the  houses,  that  water  is 
cold,  uninhabitable  and  danger- 
ous, while  fire  is  beneficent  at  a 
distance,  but  terrible  when  you 
come  too  near;  to  observe  that 


W: 


* 


mm* 


•  "•  •      •    • 


•  ••-•-.  •' 


•  •     !••"••     • 


*■  i     w< 


I 


the  meadows,  the  farm-yards  and 
sometimes  the  roads  are  haunted 
by  giant  creatures  with  threaten- 
ing horns,  creatures  good-natured, 
perhaps,  and,  at  any  rate,  silent, 
creatures  who  allow  you  to  sniff 
at  them  a  little  curiously  without  | 
taking  offence,  but  who  keep  their 
real  thoughts  to  themselves.  It 
was  necessary  to  learn,  as  the 
result  of  painful  and  humiliating 
experiment,  that  you  are  not  at 
liberty  to  obey  all  nature's  laws 
without  distinction  in  the  dwell- 
ing of  the  gods;  to  recognize  that 


the  kitchen  is  the  privileged  and 
most  agreeable  spot  in  that  divine 
dwelling,  although  you  are  hardly 
allowed  to  abide  in  it  because  of 
the  cook,  who  is  a  considerable, 
but  jealous  power ;  to  learn  that 

I  doors  are  important  and  capricious 
volitions,  which  sometimes  lead 
to  felicity,  but  which  most  often, 
hermetically  closed,  mute  and 
stern,  haughty  and  heartless,  re- 
main deaf  to  all  entreaties;  to 
admit,  once  and  for  all,  that  the 
essential  good  things  of  life,  the 
indisputable  blessings,  generally 

1 


A 

1 


■m 

s7? 


i 


imprisoned  in  pots  and  stewpans, 
are  almost  always  inaccessible; 
to  know  how  to  look  at  them 
with  laboriously-acquired  indiffer- 
ence and  to  practise  to  take  no 
notice  of  them,  saying  to  yourself 
that  here  are  objects  which  are 
probably  sacred,  since  merely  to 
skim  them  with  the  tip  of  a  re- 
spectful tongue  is  enough  to  let 
loose  the  unanimous  anger  of  all 
the  gods  of  the  house* 

And  then,  what  is  one  to  think 
of  the  table  on  which  so  many 
things    happen   that    cannot  be 


guessed ;  of  the  derisive  chairs  on 
which  one  is  forbidden  to  sleep; 
of  the  plates  and  dishes  that  are 
empty  by  the  time  that  one  can  get 
at  them;  of  the  lamp  that  drives 
away  the  dark?  ♦  .  .  How  many 
orders,  dangers,  prohibitions, 
problems,  enigmas  has  one  not  to 
classify  in  one's  overburdened 
memory !  .  .  ♦  And  how  to  rec- 
oncile all  this  with  other  laws, 
other  enigmas,  wider  and  more 
imperious,  which  one  bears  within 
self,  within  one's  instinct, 
which  spring  up  and  develop  from 


4 


one  hour  to  the  other,  which  come 
from  the  depths  of  time  and  the 
race,  invade  the  blood,  the  muscles 
and  the  nerves  and  suddenly  assert 
themselves  more  irresistibly  and 
more  powerfully  than  pain,  the 
word  of  the  master  himself,  or  the 
fear  of  death  ? 

Thus,  for  instance,  to  quote 
only  one  example,  when  the  hour 
of  sleep  has  struck  for  men,  you 
have  retired  to  your  hole,  sur- 
rounded by  the  darkness 
silence  and  the  formidable  solitude 
of  the  night*    All  is  sleep  i 


m 


fe 


i 


5,  thel 
rfitude 
in  the 

TT 


master's  house.  You  feel  your- 
self very  small  and  weak  in  the 
presence  of  the  mystery.  You 
know  that  the  gloom  is  peopled 
with  foes  who  hover  and  lie  in 
wait.  You  suspect  the  trees,  the 
passing  wind  and  the  moonbeams. 
You  would  like  to  hide,  to  sup- 
press yourself  by  holding  your 
breath.  But  still  the  watch  must 
be  kept;  you  must,  at  the  least 
sound,  issue  from  your  retreat, 
face  the  invisible  and  bluntly  dis- 
turb the  imposing  silence  of  the 
earth,  at  the  risk  of  bringing  down 


*     > 


**     '0 


the  whispering  evil  or  crime  upon 
yourself  alone.  Whoever  the  en 
emy  be,  even  if  he  be  man,  that 
is  to  say,  the  very  brother  of  the 
god  whom  it  is  your  business  to 
defend,  you  must  attack  him 
blindly,  fly  at  his  throat,  fasten 
your  perhaps  sacrilegious  teeth 
^  I  into  human  flesh,  disregard  the 
spell  of  a  hand  and  voice  similar 
to  those  of  your  master,  never 
be  silent,  never  attempt  to  es- 
cape, never  allow  yourself  to  be 
tempted  or  bribed  and,  lost  in 
the  night  without  help,  prolong 


the    heroic  alarm   to   your  last 
breath* 

There  is  the  great  ancestral 
duty,  the  essential  duty,  stronger 
than  death,  which  not  even  man's 
will  and  anger  are  able  to  check. 
All  our  humble  history,  linked 
with  that  of  the  dog  in  our  first 
struggles  against  every  breathing 
thing,  tends  to  prevent  his  forget- 
ting it.  And  when,  in  our  safer 
dwelling-places  of  to-day,  we  hap- 
to  punish  him  for  his  untimely 
he  throws  us  a  glance  of  aston- 
reproach,  as  though  to  point 


m 


out  to  us  that  we  are  in  the  wrong 
and  that,  if  we  lose  sight  of  the 
main  clause  in  the  treaty  of  alliance 
which  he  made  with  us  at  the  time 
when  we  lived  in  caves,  forests 
and  fens,  he  continues  faithful  to 
it  in  spite  of  us  and  remains  nearer 
to  the  eternal  truth  of  life,  which 
is  full  of  snares  and  hostile  forces. 
But  how  much  care  and  study 
are  needed  to  succeed  in  fulfilling 
this  duty  I  And  how  complicated 
it  has  become  since  the  days 
the  silent  caverns  and  the 
deserted    lakes!     It  was  all 


simple,  then,  so  easy  and  so  clear. 


The  lonely  hollow  opened  upon 
the  side  of  the  hill,  and  all  that 
approached,  all  that  moved  on  the 
horizon  of  the  plains  or  woods, 
was  the  unmistakable  enemy, 
.  ♦  ♦  But  to-day  you  can  no  longer 
telL  •  .  .  You  have  to  acquaint 
yourself  with  a  civilization  of 
which  you  disapprove,  to  appear 
to  understand  a  thousand  incom- 
prehensible things,  ♦  ,  ♦  Thus,  it 
seems  evident  that  henceforth  the 
whole  world  no  longer  belongs  to 
the  master,  that  his  property  con- 


t 


* 


mm 


forms  to  unintelligible  limits.  .  ♦  ♦ 
It  becomes  necessary,  therefore, 
first  of  all  to  know  exactly  where 
the  sacred  domain  begins  and 
ends.  Whom  are  you  to  suffer, 
whom  to  stop?  .  .  .  There  is  the 
road  by  which  every  one,  even 
the  poor,  has  the  right  to  pass. 
Why?  You  do  not  know;  it  is 
a  fact  which  you  deplore,  but 
which  you  are  bound  to  accept. 
Fortunately,  on  the  other  hand, 
here  is  the  fair  path  which 
may  tread.  This  path  is  faithful 
to  the  sound  traditions ;  it  is 


none 
ithful 

18,101  W*** 

if . 


to  be  lost  sight  of ;  for  by  it  enter 
into  your  daily  existence  the  diffi- 
cult problems  of  life* 

Would  you  have  an  example  ? 
You  are  sleeping  peacefully  in  a 
ray  of  the  sun  that  covers  the 
threshold  of  the  kitchen  with 
pearls.  The  earthenware  pots  are 
amusing  themselves  by  elbowing 
and  nudging  one  another  on  the 
edge  of  the  shelves  trimmed  with 
paper  lace-work*  The  copper 
stew-pans  play  at  scattering  spot 
of  light  over  the  smooth  whit 
walls.    The  motherly  stove  h 


*0 


0 


i. 


a  soft  tune  and  dandles  three 
saucepans  blissfully  dancing;  and, 
from  the  little  hole  that  lights  up 
its  inside,  defies  the  good  dog  who 
cannot  approach,  by  constantly 
putting  out  at  him  its  fiery  tongue* 
The  clock,  bored  in  its  oak  case, 
before  striking  the  august  hour  of 
meal  time,  swings  its  great  gilt 
navel  to  and  fro ;  and  the  cunning 
flies  tease  your  ears*  On  the  glit- 
tering table  lie  a  chicken,  a  hare, 
three  partridges,  besides  other 
things  which  are  called  fruits — 
peaches,    melons,    grapes — and 


U 


which  are  all  good  for  nothing. 
The  cook  guts  a  big  silver  fish 
and  throws  the  entrails  (instead 
of  giving  them  to  you !)  into  the 
dust-bin.  Ah,  the  dust-bin !  In- 
exhaustible treasury,  receptacle  of 
windfalls,  the  jewel  of  the  house ! 
You  shall  have  your  share  of  it, 
an  exquisite  and  surreptitious 
share ;  but  it  does  not  do  to  seem 
to  know  where  it  is.  You  are 
strictly  forbidden  to  rummage  in 
it.  Man  in  this  way  prohibits 
many  pleasant  things,  and  life 
would  be  dull  indeed  and  your 

mmmtmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 


A 


fc 


p 


*'4  ' 


days  empty  if  you  had  to  obey  all 
the  orders  of  the  pantry,  the  cellar 
and  the  dining-room*  Luckily, 
he  is  absent-minded  and  does  not 
long  remember  the  instructions 
which  he  lavishes.  He  is  easily 
deceived.  You  achieve  your  ends 
and  do  as  you  please,  provided 
you  have  the  patience  to  await 
the  hour.  You  are  subject  to  man, 
and  he  is  the  one  god ;  but  you 
none  the  less  have  your  own 
personal,  exact  and  imperturbable 
morality,  which  proclaims 
that  illicit  acts  become  most  lawful 


through  the  very  fact  that  they 
are  performed  without  the  master's 
knowledge.  Therefore,  let  us 
close  the  watchful  eye  that  has 
seen.  Let  us  pretend  to  sleep  and 
to  dream  of  the  moon.  .  .  . 

Hark !  A  gentle  tapping  at  the 
blue  window  that  looks  out  on  the 
garden !  What  is  it  ?  Nothing ; 
a  bough  of  hawthorn  that  has 
come  to  see  what  we  are  doing  in 
the  cool  kitchen.  Trees  are  in- 
quisitive and  often  excited;  but 
they  do  not  count,  one  has  nothing 
to  say  to  them,  they  are  irrespon- 


5 

5* 


mm 


k 


sible,  they  obey  the  wind,  which 
has  no  principles.  ♦  ♦  ♦  But  what 
is  that  ?  I  hear  steps !  ♦  ♦  .  Up, 
ears  open;  nose  on  the  alert! 
.  .  ♦  It  is  the  baker  coming  up  to 
the  rails,  while  the  postman  is 
opening  a  little  gate  in  the  hedge 
of  lime-trees.  They  are  friends ; 
it  is  well;  they  bring  something: 
you  can  greet  them  and  wag  your 
tail  discreetly  twice  or  thrice,  with 
a  patronizing  smile. 

Another  alarm!    What 
now?    A  carriage  pulls  up 
front  of  the  steps.    The  probl 


What  is  it 
pulls  up  in 
rhe  problem   1^^ 


is  a  complex  one*  Before  all,  it  is 
of  consequence  to  heap  copious 
insults  on  the  horses,  great,  proud 
beasts,  who  make  no  reply. 
Meantime,  you  examine  out  of 
the  corner  of  your  eye  the  persons 
alighting.  They  are  well-clad 
and  seem  full  of  confidence.  They 
are  probably  going  to  sit  at  the 
table  of  the  gods.  The  proper 
thing  is  to  bark  without  acrimony, 
with  a  shade  of  respect,  so  as  to 
show  that  you  are  doing  your 
duty,  but  that  you  are  doing  it 
with  intelligence.    Nevertheless, 


m 

BJ1 


M 


mtm 


you  cherish  a  lurking  suspicion 
and,  behind  the  guests'  backs, 
stealthily,  you  sniff  the  air  per- 
sistently and  in  a  knowing  way, 
in  order  to  discern  any  hidden 
intentions. 

But  halting  footsteps  resound 
outside  the  kitchen.  This  time  it 
is  the  poor  man  dragging  his 
crutch,  the  unmistakable  enemy, 
the  hereditary  enemy,  the  direct 
descendant  of  him  who  roamed 
outside  the  bone-cramped 
which  you  suddenly  see 
in  your  racial  memory.    Drunk 


s     .    \ 


with  indignation,  your  bark  bro- 
ken, your  teeth  multiplied  with 
hatred  and  rage,  you  are  about 
to  seize  their  reconcilable  adver- 
sary by  the  breeches,  when  the 
cook,  armed  with  her  broom,  the 
ancillary  and  forsworn  sceptre, 
comes  to  protect  the  traitor,  and 
you  are  obliged  to  go  back  to 
your  hole,  where,  with  eyes  filled 
with  impotent  and  slanting  flames, 
you  growl  out  frightful,  but  futile 
curses,  thinking  within  yourself 
this  is  the  end  of  all  things, 
that  the  human  species  has 


I/'  ' 


lost  its  notion  of  justice  and  in- 
justice. •  .  . 

Is  that  all?  Not  yet;  for  the 
smallest  life  is  made  up  of  innu- 
merous  duties,  and  it  is  a  long 
work  to  organise  a  happy  exis- 
tence upon  the  borderland  of  two 
such  different  worlds  as  the  world 
of  beasts  and  the  world  of  men. 
How  should  we  fare  if  we  had 
to  serve,  while  remaining  within 
our  own  sphere,  a  divinity,  not 
an  imaginary  one,  like  to 
selves,  because  the  offspring  of 
own  brain,  but  a  god  actually 


visible,  ever  present,  ever  active 
and  as  foreign,  as  superior  to  our 
being  as  we  are  to  the  dog? 

We  now,  to  return  to  Pelleas, 
know  pretty  well  what  to  do  and 
how  to  behave  on  the  master's 
premises*  But  the  world  does 
not  end  at  the  house-door,  and, 
beyond  the  walls  and  beyond  the 
hedge,  there  is  a  universe  of  which 
one  has  not  the  custody,  where 
one  is  no  longer  at  home,  where 
relations  are  changed.  How  are 
we  to  stand  in  the  street,  in  the 
fields,  in  the  market-place,  in  the 


4 


^      *s 


*K 


shops?  In  consequence  of  diffi- 
cult and  delicate  observations,  we 
understand  that  we  must  take 
no  notice  of  passers-by;  obey  no 
calls  but  the  master's;  be  polite, 
with  indifference,  to  strangers 
who  pet  us.  Next,  we  must 
conscientiously  fulfil  certain  obli- 
gations of  mysterious  courtesy 
toward  our    brothers  the  other 


dogs;  respect  chickens  and  ducks; 
at  the  pastry-cooks,  which  spread 


not  appear  to  remark  the  cakes 


i 


themselves  insolently  within  reach 
of  the  tongue;  show  to  the  cats, 

♦    M        _■■■--  .. „■ 


who,  on  the  steps  of  the  houses, 
provoke  us  by  hideous  grimaces, 
a  silent  contempt,  but  one  that 
will  not  forget;  and  remember 
that  it  is  lawful  and  even  com- 
mendable to  chase  and  strangle 
mice,  rats,  wild  rabbits  and,  gen- 
erally speaking,  all  animals  (we 
learn  to  know  them  by  secret 
marks)  that  have  not  yet  made 
their  peace  with  mankind* 

All  this  and  so  much  more! 
.  .  .  Was  it  surprising  that 
Pelleas  often  appeared  pensive  in 
the  face  of  those  numberless  prob- 


* 

i 


*/ 


ft 


tf 


k 


lems,  and  that  his  humble  and 
gentle  look  was  often  so  profound 
and  grave,  laden  with  cares  and 
full  of  unreadable  questions  ? 

Alas,  he  did  not  have  time  to 
finish  the  long  and  heavy  task 

(which  nature  lays  upon  the  in- 
stinct that  rises  in  order  to  ap- 
proach a  brighter  region.  •  .  . 
An  ill  of  a  mysterious  character, 
which  seems  specially  to  punish 
the  only  animal  that  succeeds  in 
leaving  the  circle  in  which  it  is 
born ;  an  indefinite  ill  that  carries 
off  hundreds  of  intelligent  little 


dogs,  came  to  put  an  end  to  the 
destiny  and  the  happy  education 
of  Pelleas.  And  now  all  those 
efforts  to  achieve  a  little  more 
light;  all  that  ardour  in  loving, 
that  courage  in  understanding; 
all  that  affectionate  gaiety  and 
innocent  fawning;  all  those  kind 
and  devoted  looks,  which  turned 
to  man  to  ask  for  his  assistance 
against  unjust  death;  all  those 
flickering  gleams  which  came 
from  the  profound  abyss  of  a 
world  that  is  no  longer  ours;  all 
learly  human  little  habits 


new 


*4 


i 


lie  sadly  in  the  cold  ground,  tin- 
der a  flowering  elder-tree,  in  a 
corner  of  the  garden. 


n 

Man  loves  the  dog,  but  how 
much  more  ought  he  to  love  it 
if  he  considered,  in  the  inflexible 
harmony  of  the  laws  of  nature, 
the  sole  exception,  which  is  that 
love  of  a  being  that  succeeds  in 
piercing,  in  order  to  draw  closer 
to  us,  the  partitions,  every  else 
where  impermeable,  that  separate 


the  species !  We  are  alone,  abso- 
lutely alone  on  this  chance  planet ; 
and  amid  all  the  forms  of  life  that 
surround  us,  not  one,  excepting 
the  dog,  has  made  an  alliance 
with  us*  A  few  creatures  fear 
us,  most  are  unaware  of  us,  and 
not  one  loves  us*  In  the  world 
of  plants,  we  have  dumb  and 
motionless  slaves;  but  they  serve 
us  in  spite  of  themselves.  They 
simply  endure  our  laws  and  our 
yoke.  They  are  impotent  pris- 
oners, victims  incapable  of  escap- 
ing, but  silently  rebellious;   and, 


'4 


*K 


so  soon  as  we  lose  sight  of  them, 
they  hasten  to  betray  us  and 
return  to  their  former  wild  and 
mischievous  liberty*  The  rose 
and  the  corn,  had  they  wings, 
would  fly  at  our  approach  like 
the  birds* 

Among  the  animals,  we  num- 
ber a  few  servants  who  have 
submitted  only  through  indiffer- 
ence, cowardice  or  stupidity:  the 
uncertain  and  craven  horse,  who 
responds  only  to  pain  and 
attached  to  nothing;  the  passive 
and  dejected  ass,  who  stays 


10 


us  only  because  he  knows  not 
what  to  do  nor  where  to  go, 
but  who  nevertheless,  under  the 
cudgel  and  the  pack-saddle,  retains 
the  idea  that  lurks  behind  his 
ears;  the  cow  and  the  ox,  happy 
so  long  as  they  are  eating,  and 
docile  because,  for  centuries,  they 
have  not  had  a  thought  of  their 
own;  the  affrighted  sheep,  who 
knows  no  other  master  than  ter- 
ror; the  hen,  who  is  faithful  to 
because  she  finds 
wheat  there  than 
forest.    I  do 


\l    m 

M 

the  poultry-yard  bee 
more  maize  and  wh< 
in  the  neighbouring 


4 


not  speak  of  the  cat,  to  whom 
we  are  nothing  more  than  a  too 
large  and  uneatable  prey:  the 
ferocious  cat,  whose  sidelong  con- 
tempt tolerates  us  only  as  encum- 
bering parasites  in  our  own  homes* 
She,  at  least,  curses  us  in  her 
mysterious  heart;  but  all  the 
others  live  beside  us  as  they 
might  live  beside  a  rock  or  a  tree. 
They  do  not  love  us,  do  not 
know  us,  scarcely  notice  us. 
They  are  unaware  of  our 
our  death,  our  departure,  our 
turn,  our  sadness,  our  joy, 


•life, 
irre- 


smile.  They  do  not  even  hear 
the  sound  of  our  voice,  so  soon 
as  it  no  longer  threatens  them; 
and,  when  they  look  at  us,  it 
is  with  the  distrustful  bewilder- 
ment of  the  horse,  in  whose  eye 
still  hovers  the  infatuation  of  the 
elk  or  gazelle  that  sees  us  for  the 
first  time,  or  with  the  dull  stupor 
of  the  ruminants,  who  look  upon 
us  as  a  momentary  and  useless 
accident  of  the  pasture. 

For  thousands  of  years,  they 
have  been  living  at  our  side,  as 
foreign  to  our  thoughts,  our  affec- 


m 


V 


tions,  our  habits  as  though  the 
least  fraternal  of  the  stars  had 
dropped  them  but  yesterday  on 
our  globe.  In  the  boundless  in- 
terval that  separates  man  from 
all  the  other  creatures,  we  have 
succeeded  only ,  by  dint  of  patience, 
in  making  them  take  two  or  three 
illusory  steps*  And,  if,  to-mor- 
row, leaving  their  feelings  toward 
us  untouched,  nature  were  to 
give  them  the  intelligence  and  the 
weapons  wherewith  to  conquer 
us,  I  confess  that  I  should  distrust 
the  hasty  vengeance  of  the  horse, 


b 


the  obstinate  reprisals  of  the  ass 
and  the  maddened  meekness  of 
the  sheep*  I  should  shun  the  cat 
as  I  should  shun  the  tiger;  and 
even  the  good  cow,  solemn  and 
somnolent,  would  inspire  me  with 
but  a  wary  confidence.  As  for 
the  hen,  with  her  round,  quick 
eye,  as  when  discovering  a 
slug  or  a  worm,  I  am  sure  that 
she  would  devour  me  without  a 
thought. 


£ 


3HU 


i 


Now,  in  this  indifference  and 
this  total  want  of  comprehension  in 
which  everything  that  surrounds 
us  lives;  in  this  incommunicable 
world,  where  everything  has  its 
object  hermetically  contained  with- 
in itself  ,  where  every  destiny  is  self- 
circumscribed,  where  there  exist 
among  the  creatures  no  other 
relations  than  those  of  execu- 
tioners and  victims, 
eaten,  where  nothing  i 
leave  its  steel-bound  sph 


eaters  and 
g  is  able  to 
phere,  where  1^^ 


«    .  * 


death  alone  establishes  cruel  rela- 
tions of  cause  and  effect  between 
neighbouring  lives,  where  not  the 
smallest  sympathy  has  ever  made 
a  conscious  leap  from  one  species 
to  another,  one  animal  alone, 
among  all  that  breathes  upon  the 
earth,  has  succeeded  in  breaking 
through  the  prophetic  circle,  in 
escaping  from  itself  to  come 
bounding  toward  us,  definitely  to 
cross  the  enormous  zone  of  dark- 
ness, ice  and  silence  that  isolates 
each  category  of  existence  in 
nature's  unintelligible  plan.    This 


J 


mem 


'     i      Wi 


animal,  our  good  familiar  dog, 
simple  and  unsurprising  as  may 
to-day  appear  to  us  what  he  has 
done,  in  thus  perceptibly  drawing 
nearer  to  a  world  in  which  he 
was  not  born  and  for  which  he 
was  not  destined,  has  neverthe- 
less performed  one  of  the  most 
unusual  and  improbable  acts  that 
we  can  find  in  the  general  history 
of  life*  When  was  this  recognition 
of  man  by  beast,  this  extraordi- 
nary passage  from  darkness 
light,  effected  ?  Did  we  seek 
the  poodle,  the  collie,  or  the 


u 


tiff  from  among  the  wolves  and 
the  jackals,  or  did  he  come  spon- 
taneously to  us?  We  cannot  telL 
So  far  as  our  human  annals 
stretch,  he  is  at  our  side,  as  at 
present;  but  what  are  human  an- 
nals in  comparison  with  the  times 
of  which  we  have  no  witness? 
The  fact  remains  that  he  is  there 
in  our  houses,  as  ancient,  as  rightly 
placed,  as  perfectly  adapted  to  our 
habits  as  though  he  had  appeared 
on  this  earth,  such  as  he  now  is, 
at  the  same  time  as  ourselves. 
We  have  not  to  gain  his  confi- 


mmx 


dence  or  his  friendship :  he  is  born 
our  friend;  while  his  eyes  are  still 
closed,  already  he  believes  in  us: 
even  before  his  birth,  he  has  given 
himself  to  man.  But  the  word 
"friend"  does  not  exactly  depict 
his  affectionate  worship*  He 
loves  us  and  reveres  us  as  though 
we  had  drawn  him  out  of  nothing. 
He  is,  before  all,  our  creature  full 
of  gratitude  and  more  devoted 
than  the  apple  of  our  eye.  He  is 
our  intimate  and  impassioned 
slave,  whom  nothing  discourages, 
whom    nothing    repels,    whose 


ardent  trust  and  love  nothing  can 
impair*  He  has  solved,  in  an 
admirable  and  touching  manner, 
the  terrifying  problem  which 
human  wisdom  would  have  to 
solve  if  a  divine  race  came  to 
occupy  our  globe.  He  has  loyally, 
religiously,  irrevocably  recognized 
man's  superiority  and  has  sur- 
rendered himself  to  him  body  and 
soul,  without  after-thought,  with- 
out any  intention  to  go  back, 
reserving  of  his  independence,  his 
instinct  and  his  character  only 
the  small  part  indispensable  to  the 


& 


I 


continuation  of  the  life  prescribed 
by  nature*  With  an  unquestion- 
ing certainty,  an  unconstraint 
and  a  simplicity  that  surprise  us 
a  little,  deeming  us  better  and 
more  powerful  than  all  that  exists, 
he  betrays,  for  our  benefit,  the 
whole  of  the  animal  kingdom  to 
which  he  belongs  and,  without 
scruple,  denies  his  race,  his  kin, 
his  mother  and  his  young* 

But  he  loves  us  not  only  in  his 
consciousness  and  his  intelligence 
the  very  instinct  of  his  race,  the  < 
tire  unconsciousness  of  his  species 


fc 


» 


$* 


k 


«    .  » 


I 


it  appears,  think  only  of  us,  dream 
only  of  being  useful  to  us.  To 
serve  us  better,  to  adapt  himself 
better  to  our  different  needs,  he 
has  adopted  every  shape  and  been 
able  infinitely  to  vary  the  faculties, 
the  aptitudes  which  he  places  at 
our  disposal.  Is  he  to  aid  us  in 
the  pursuit  of  game  in  the  plains  ? 
His  legs  lengthen  inordinately, 
his  muzzle  tapers,  his  lungs 
widen,  he  becomes  swifter  than 
the  deer*     Does  our  prey  hide 

(under  wood?  The  docile  genius 
of   the  species,  forestalling   our 


ml 
m 


4 


& 

m 

'•7? 
»."* 


i 


desires,  presents  us  with  the  basset, 
a  sort  of  almost  footless  serpent, 
which  steals  into  the  closest 
thickets.  Do  we  ask  that  he 
should  drive  our  flocks?  The 
same  compliant  genius  grants 
him  the  requisite  size,  intelligence, 
energy  and  vigilance.  Do  we 
intend  him  to  watch  and  defend 
our  house?  His  head  becomes 
round  and  monstrous,  in  order  that 
his  jaws  may  be  more  power- 
ful, more  formidable  and  more 
tenacious.  Are  we  taking  him  to 
the    south?      His    hair    grows 


\ 


shorter  and  lighter,  so  that  he 
may  faithfully  accompany  us 
under  the  rays  of  a  hotter  sun. 
Are  we  going  up  to  the  north? 
His  feet  grow  larger,  the  better  to 
tread  the  snow;  his  fur  thickens, 
in  order  that  the  cold  may  not 
compel  him  to  abandon  us*  Is 
he  intended  only  for  us  to  play 
with,  to  amuse  the  leisure  of  our 
eyes,  to  adorn  or  enliven  the 
home?  He  clothes  himself  in  a 
sovereign  grace  and  elegance,  he 
makes  himself  smaller  than  a  doll 
to  sleep  on  our  knees  by  the  fire- 


4 


side,  or  even  consents,  should  our 
fancy  demand  it,  to  appear  a  little 
ridiculous  to  please  us* 

You  shall  not  find,  in  nature's 
immense  crucible,  a  single  living 
being  that  has  shown  a  like  sup- 
pleness, a  similar  abundance  of 
forms,  the  same  prodigious  faculty 
of  accommodation  to  our  wishes. 
This  is  because,  in  the  world 
which  we  know,  among  the  dif- 
ferent and  primitive  geniuses  that 
preside  over  the  evolution  of 
several  species,  there  exists 
one,  excepting  that  of  the 


M 


A 


that  ever  gave  a  thought  to  the 
presence  of  man. 

It  will,  perhaps,  be  said  that 
we  have  been  able  to  transform 
almost  as  profoundly  some  of  our 
domestic  animals:  our  hens,  our 
pigeons,  our  ducks,  our  cats,  our 
horses,  our  rabbits,  for  instance. 
Yes, perhaps;  although  such  trans- 
formations are  not  comparable 
with  those  undergone  by  the  dog 
and  although  the  kind  of  service 
which  these  animals  render  us 
remains,  so  to  speak,  invariable. 
In  any  case,  whether  this  impres- 


% 


g& 


A 


i. 


sion  be  purely  imaginary  or 
correspond  with  a  reality,  it  does 
not  appear  that  we  feel  in  these 
transformations  the  same  unfail- 
ing and  preventing  good  will,  the 
same  sagacious  and  exclusive 
love*  For  the  rest,  it  is  quite 
possible  that  the  dog,  or  rather 
the  inaccessible  genius  of  his  race, 
troubles  scarcely  at  all  about  us 
and  that  we  have  merely  known 
how  to  make  use  of  various  apti- 
tudes offered  by  the  abundant 
chances  of  life*  It  matters  not: 
as  we  know  nothing  of  the  sub- 


«    ,  * 


stance  of  things,  we  must  needs 
cling  to  appearances;  and  it  is 
sweet  to  establish  that,  at  least 
in  appearance,  there  is  on  the 
planet  where,  like  unacknowl- 
edged kings,  we  live  in  solitary 
state,  a  being  that  loves  us* 

However  the  case  may  stand 
with  these  appearances,  it  is  none 
the  less  certain  that,  in  the  aggre- 
gate of  intelligent  creatures  that 
have  rights,  duties,  a  mission  and 
a  destiny,  the  dog  is  a  really 
privileged  animaL  He  occupies 
in  this  world  a  pre-eminent  posi- 


« 


& 


T*i 


4 


V 


f      4       » 

tion  enviable  among  all.  He  is 
the  only  living  being  that  has 
found  and  recognizes  an  indubi- 
table, tangible,  unexceptionable 
and  definite  god.  He  knows  to 
what  to  devote  the  best  part  of 
himself.  He  knows  to  whom 
above  him  to  g^vc  himself.  He 
has  not  to  seek  for  a  perfect, 
superior  and  infinite  power  in  the 
darkness,  amid  successive  lies, 
hypotheses  and  dreams.  That 
power  is  there,  before  him,  and 
he  moves  in  its  light.  He  knows 
the  supreme  duties  which  we  all 


,   * 


do  not  know.  He  has  a  morality 
which  surpasses  all  that  he  is 
able  to  discover  in  himself  and 
which  he  can  practise  without 
scruple  and  without  fear.  He 
possesses  truth  in  its  fulness. 
He  has  a  certain  and  infinite 
ideal. 


IV 

And  it  was  thus  that,  the  other 
day,  before  his  illness,  I  saw  my 
little  Pelleas  sitting  at  the  foot  of 


I -^ - 

my  writing-table,  his  tail  carefully 


■m 


folded  under  his  paws,  his  head 
a  little  on  one  side,  the  better  to 
question  me,  at  once  attentive 
and  tranquil,  as  a  saint  should  be 
in  the  presence  of  God.  He  was 
happy  with  the  happiness  which 
we,  perhaps,  shall  never  know, 
since  it  sprang  from  the  smile 
and  the  approval  of  a  life  incom- 
parably higher  than  his  own. 
He  was  there,  studying,  drinking 
in  all  my  looks;  and  he  replied 
to  them  gravely,  as  from 
equal,  to  inform  me 
that,  at  least  through 


the  most  immaterial  organ  that 
transformed  into  affectionate  in- 
telligence the  light  which  we 
enjoyed,  he  knew  that  he  was 
saying  to  me  all  that  love  should 
say*  And,  when  I  saw  him 
thus,  young,  ardent  and  believing, 
bringing  me,  in  some  wise,  from 
the  depths  of  unwearied  nature, 
quite  fresh  news  of  life  and  trust- 
ing and  wonderstruck,  as  though 
he  had  been  the  first  of  his  race 
came  to  inaugurate  the  earth 
as  though  we  were  still  in 
first  days  of  the  world's  exist- 


i 


'     « 


R 


ence,  I  envied  the  gladness  of  his 
certainty,  compared  it  with  the 
destiny  of  man,  still  plunging  on 
every  side  into  darkness,  and 
said  to  myself  that  the  dog  who 
meets  with  a  good  master  is  the 
happier  of  the  two. 


y  ■ 


